


slight air and purging fire

by bookoftheazuresky



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No one but Sumeragi and Garon die, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Major Character Injury, does it count as character death if garon's already dead, magic-using Mikoto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 18:53:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15564243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookoftheazuresky/pseuds/bookoftheazuresky
Summary: Queen Ikona of Hoshido is still alive when her king is killed and Princess Kamui is kidnapped. And she is not about to let this go without retaliation.





	slight air and purging fire

**Author's Note:**

> I was trying to extrapolate what Ikona was like from her and Sumeragi's kids, and I thought "well, what if she's a lot like Hinoka?" Then I thought about what that kind of Ikona would do if her husband was killed and Kamui was kidnapped on her watch.
> 
> Title is from Sonnet 45, Shakespeare.

Queen Ikona of Hoshido peered covertly around the corner, her naginata at the ready. She noted the two guards outside the throne room, the visible parts of their faces marked with wary boredom. It had been years since she had set foot in Castle Krakenburg, but those tedious diplomatic visits were actually coming in handy for _something_. Since Garon had apparently decided to abandon peace entirely, for no reason she could fathom- had killed Sumeragi, a ruling monarch; kidnapped Kamui, a child of six, a princess of Hoshido! It could not be borne.

For more than one reason. Ikona pulled back, resting her spine on the chilly stone, her long maple-red ponytail no insulation, and turned to her companion. Mikoto’s lovely face was set, an arrow nocked in her warbow but not yet drawn. Ikona held up two fingers, then tapped Mikoto’s leather-covered wrist and made the ninja handsign for _magic_.

The lady sighed inaudibly and reached back to replace the arrow in her quiver and pull out a slender, crystal-capped rod in its place. Ikona felt a faint wash of power, a prickling along the arm nearest the priestess, regardless of the layers of her kimono and armguards and the protections woven therein. She met Ikona’s eyes steadily, then nodded.

Ikona stepped away from the wall, still out of sight of the guards, and adjusted her grip on the naginata. She held her open hand where Mikoto could see it, then folded her thumb in. Four. Three. Two. One.

The spearwoman stepped free of concealment and threw herself forward.

The guards startled, fumbling to bring their pikes down and drawing breath to sound the alarm. A wave of numbing magic outsped Ikona, brushing over her like a flood of brackish water that broke over the guards. The nearer slumped, his pike starting to slip from nerveless fingers as his voice was lost in a croak. Ikona’s blade found the seam between helm and armor, sending red blood spurting down over the metal. She kicked him off her weapon, blood wetting her red hakama and the armored boots beneath, and spun to face the remaining guard.

An arrow sprouted from his eye, sending him toppling to the floor as well.

“Good shot,” Ikona said, shaking out her fingers, most of her attention on listening for backup. It was a risk, separating from her forces, but there was only a limited number of people that could sneak into Krakenburg at one time, and they were all needed elsewhere if they didn’t want to be knee deep in troops come sunrise. But too many opponents and she and Mikoto would be overwhelmed.

Still, the information gathering of Hoshidan ninja was not to be underestimated. Kamui was _here_. And Garon now spent long hours of the night in communion with the effigy of the Dusk Dragon in his throne room- quite out of character for the womanizer Ikona remembered meeting, but perfect for her purposes. She wanted no witnesses and a clear path.

“Thank you,” Mikoto said absently, fingering the fletching of the arrow she had nocked. Ikona smiled at her automatic politeness, just slightly, and went to the throne room doors. She touched the elaborate gateway with light fingers, then jerked her hand back with a hiss.

“Let me,” Mikoto said, stepping up to Ikona’s shoulder. She offered her bow with a touch of ceremony for Ikona to take. Then, her hands unencumbered, she reached out to the door herself. Her blue and white vestments stood out like the slice of the winter sky overhead in a granite canyon.

Rather than pull out one of the rods tucked in her quiver, Mikoto simply drew signs with her hands. A dark pattern bloomed across the doors in a counterpoint to the faint golden glow. The priestess frowned at the warding.

“What is it?” Ikona asked.

Mikoto shook her head. “Just a spell to keep the doors from being opened by force. I’ll have it undone in a moment.”

That wasn’t really what Ikona had been asking- Mikoto’s expression wasn’t a ‘what is this’ look, it was a ‘what is this doing _here_ ’ look- but she could get a better answer later, when they weren’t up to their necks in enemy territory. Mikoto was as good as her word, sketching out a complicated glyph with quick confidence and then laying the entire gold-shining thing against the greater sign on the door. The dark pattern faded from the center out, until nothing was left.

“It will open now,” Mikoto said, accepting her bow back.

“All right.” Ikona considered options on their plan of attack. It would really depend on where Garon was in the room and if there were any more guards inside. If he was on the throne, he would be protected by more spells- there wasn’t a royal family who _didn’t_ take similar precautions, especially in their formal audience chambers. But those protections wouldn’t extend very far. If she could lure him away, Mikoto could easily incapacitate or kill him.

She _wanted_ to kill him. Fire-haired and fire-hearted, that was what she had been called since she could toddle. It had been hard- it _was_ hard- to keep the rage at Sumeragi’s murder banked. If it wasn’t for Mikoto, she wouldn’t have been able to do it- the priestess’ tears at her lost child had quenched the flames of vengeance, for a time. Long enough for the new Hoshidan queen to plot, and plan, and finally lead her people to the center of Nohr’s power for a surgical strike to retrieve the kidnapped princess…and to bring Garon, at last, to heel.

But Ikona was a queen. Hoshido could conceivably benefit more from leaving a cowed king behind and extorting quite a price for the privilege of continued life, and so she must keep in mind.

“We’ll try to negotiate first,” Ikona conceded. “But he hasn’t earned any patience, so shoot him, spell him, the _second_ he tries anything.”

“And if he’s on his throne?” Mikoto asked.

“If he won’t get up, I’ll cut his throat for him,” Ikona said with grim good humor. “ _That_ , at least, there aren’t any protections against.”

Mikoto sighed. “Be careful,” she entreated. “I don’t want to have to tell Ryouma he’s an orphan twice over.”

Ikona put her shoulder against the heavy door. “I have,” she said, “no intention of dying.” Then she pushed, hard and fast.

If nothing else, Nohrians had good engineering. Though Ikona was spear-slender, the door moved at her shove. The red-head darted through the gap and set herself in a ready stance just inside the room, hands at shoulder height with the naginata’s curved edge facing outwards.

The throne room, like most Nohrian architecture, seemed built to intimidate and overwhelm rather than impress. A red carpet spilled across the floor like a premonition of blood, and dead rose vines seemed to cover every inch of wall. The throne was made of steel and pallid marble, and would have dominated the room even if it had been well-lit. In the faint, red-tinted light, it _loomed_.

“It seems that rats have managed to sneak their way in.”

_So much for the element of surprise_ , Ikona thought with the small part of her attention that hadn’t narrowed in on the sight of her goal. As she’d half-expected, Garon was on his throne. As she’d _feared_ , Kamui was up on the dais as well, her gray hair ashen in the dim light of the throne room. A Nohrian boy, probably in his preteens, was also there, dismay written all over his young face. From the dark circlet on his blond head, Ikona recognized him as the crown prince, Xander. He was unarmed and unarmored, so she just as swiftly dismissed him from her list of concerns.

“Oh yes,” Ikona replied, in the placidly murderous tone that made Hoshidan nobles cringe. “In fact, I’m looking at the vermin that managed to cross Hoshido’s borders not a month past! Amazing how inventive such creatures can become- or perhaps it’s more amazing that I mistook you for a man in the first place.” All pretense of humor fled from her voice then. “Return Princess Kamui immediately or I will kill you where you sit. You can still purchase your life from me- I’m not an unreasonable woman- but your play has failed, Garon.”

Garon rose from his throne, a dark Nohrian blade gleaming. Ikona stiffened, and knew Mikoto did the same- a frission of magic made her skin itch. Garon, Ikona noted almost whimsically in the taut moment, looked _terrible_ , a far cry from the grimly handsome young king she remembered. He could almost be a walking corpse.

“I could kill her now, in front of you,” Garon mused, the blade held much too close to the young princess. Kamui pulled in a small breath.

“Don’t be stupid,” Ikona told him. Her heart wanted to rage at him, rush him, but it was too dangerous. There was no way Garon could win now, but he could always decide on spite. “You have nothing else to bargain with. My people are taking the castle as we speak. Concede gracefully, for once in your life. If nothing else, think of your children.”

Something in her speech galvanized young Xander- probably the mention of him and his siblings. The blond prince shouldered in front of Kamui, screening her with his body. “Father,” he started.

Whatever he was going to say next was lost in a wet sound of shock. Ikona heard Mikoto make an almost identical noise behind her. Ikona’s own lungs were frozen; she couldn’t have been heard even if she wanted to.

Garon almost idly jerked the blade from the boy’s shoulder, sending blood splattering across Kamui’s face and his own clothes. Blank-faced, the prince collapsed like a discarded doll. Kamui made a small, animal sound of hurt.

Ikona found her voice. “ _Mikoto_ ,” she hissed, though she scarcely needed to. Her feet were carrying her forward, hands shifting on the haft of her naginata. The world narrowed to a singular focus. She _lunged_.

The Nohrian clearly hadn’t been expecting her to clear the distance so quickly. He stumbled back, hampered by his heavy cape. She bent the lunge into a slash at his face, driving him further away from the children.

Ikona followed the motion of the weapon, hooking the blade back towards herself. A switch of her grip and she smashed the iron-shod staff into that elaborate armor Nohrians were so fond of. She actually succeeded in knocking him off the dais with the hit, metal shrieking on stone as he stumbled and half-fell.

Her pounce was aborted as he finally got the bloodied blade in between himself and her. As angry as she was, Ikona didn’t let herself get drawn into a contest of strength. Instead, she let her polearm slip through her fingers until it only overlapped her forearm and used the length to give force to her strikes.

Mikoto and Kamui were behind her; her enemy was ahead. Simplicity itself.

He was surprisingly subtle with a blade, trying to find an angle to jar the naginata from her hands or make her overextend. In return, she moved like flame, yielding to force only to rush in behind. She didn’t bother with anything fancy, just hammering at the thinner parts of his armor with blunt force.

Too late, she recognized his overhand stroke as a feint. She caught the thrust, barely, sending it over her shoulder, but he was too close. He leaned his full weight into their clash, bending her wrist back. His heavy blade hovered over her shoulder, creeping closer.

“Too bad, girl,” he grated, tasting victory.

Ikona gave him her politest smile, hooked her foot behind his ankle and _yanked_. The look of stupid shock on his face as he went down was priceless.

Her blade met his neck in a perfect beheading stroke.

Very firmly telling herself that it was unladylike to spit on her downed opponents, no matter how much they deserved it, she pushed herself upright with her naginata. “Mikoto, is it alright?” Her voice was rough.

“He’s not dead,” Mikoto reported, sounding like she’d gone through her own battle. Ikona let herself slump with relief. She wasn’t sure if she could have forgiven herself for letting a child get murdered in front of her.

She turned back to the priestess, taking a moment to peel her hair off of her sweating face. Kamui was tucked under her mother’s arm, face hidden in Mikoto’s pale sleeve. The Nohrian prince was laid across Mikoto’s lap, his blood smeared over her vestments and hands. Though pale, he was still breathing. Mikoto herself was nearly as white, perspiration gleaming on her forehead.

“Good,” Ikona said, straightening her shoulders. She walked over to the other woman, then leaned over and touched gray hair to reassure herself that the girl was really here. Both she and Mikoto has been so afraid that Kamui had died with Sumeragi, no matter that no body had been found. “Kamui, darling, are you all right?”

A red eye, wet with tears, peeked up at her. Then Kamui buried her head back in Mikoto’s kimono. Ikona and Mikoto shared a look, concerned and relieved in equal parts. Then both of them stiffened as they heard running steps. Ikona dropped into a ready stance before Mikoto, naginata at the ready, eyes on the doors to the throne room.

A red-faced karakuri bulled through the elaborate doors, followed by Yukimura and several ninja, with her own retainer Asuma bringing up the rear. All but Yukimura bore bared blades, and the puppeteer’s fingers gleamed with razor-edged wires. “Queen Ikona! Lady Mikoto!” The sight of Garon dead on the floor brought them up short, and Yukimura looked quite alarmed at the blood visible on Mikoto’s pale vestments and light armor.

“Tactician, report,” Ikona ordered, recalling him to his true duties.

Yukimura straightened. “We have the castle. All resistance has been contained. The Nohrian tactician Iago _was_ here after all.” Here he scowled slightly over his shoulder at the swordmaster. “Asuma put him to the sword, unfortunately.”

“He would have stabbed you the second your back was turned and you know it,” Asuma returned easily, unbothered with being tattled on.

Ikona snorted in agreement. “I wouldn’t have negotiated with him even if he was the only person with authority in all of Nohr.” The battle was catching up with her now, exhaustion draping over her shoulders like an overly familiar arm. And she had so much to _manage_ now; she’d started a _war_. She didn’t regret it in the least- oh, her murdered husband, Kamui cowering with a prince’s blood on her small face- but now she had to see it through.

Her mouth twitched at the thought of simply bundling up Mikoto and Kamui and all her people and just heading home. It was a _stupid_ idea, but it had a certain straightforward appeal. Ah, well.

Ikona shook herself and put her free hand on her hip. “Well, we have the castle now. Let’s get ready to hold it- I imagine quite a few Nohrians will be unhappy in a few hours when the sun comes up. We might as well take advantage of the fortifications. Asuma, get started moving our troops in here. Yukimura, I want the rest of the royal family and the high nobles somewhere secure- and _unharmed_ , you hear me?” _Now_ she turned a cool gaze on Asuma, long enough to get her point across. He bowed to her obediently. Yukimura did the same when she turned back to him.

Ikona turned back to Mikoto. “Dear heart, is he safe to move? I don’t want you in here any longer than necessary.”

“Yes, it’ll be fine now.” At a tip of his queen’s chin, one of Yukimura’s party came to bear the unconscious boy while Mikoto climbed painfully to her feet. This process was not helped by the clinging Kamui. Bloody and tired she might be, but Mikoto was still the most beautiful woman Ikona had ever seen, a moon-kissed archer crowned with night-dark braids.

Ikona shifted her naginata to her other hand and reached out to capture Mikoto’s fingers, winding around the white wood of her festal. “Let’s get you cleaned up and settled. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”


End file.
